Dream Girl
by munkinette
Summary: Isabelle French has been plagued by nightmares for as long as she can remember. To no avail has she seen therapists and committed herself to institutions. No one but the pawnbroker seems able to help. His taste, his smell, his skin have become the three coordinates of her sane world. When she sleeps besides him, she does not dream. She is where she needs to be.


The hasty clicks of Isabelle's heels echo through the wide corridor, louder in her ears than any beeping machine and murmur from doctor or nurse. She's trying her best not to notice how horrifyingly familiar the cavernous sound is, or how the hospital walls are too-white, the lights much too bright for a past time that she's not supposed to have any memory of, because it _never happened_. Between the open window at the front of the hall, blowing cold late-autumn air inside, and the door screeching shut somewhere at her back, she manages to locate the spiraling set of stairs of Storybrooke's General Hospital. Isabelle curls her hands on the handrail, breathing deep as she tries to center herself, but the feel of cold metal bars against her palms is far from being the lifeline she so desperately craves. It's not soon enough when she finally makes it to the ground floor, puts her small, sweaty palms across the glass door of the front entrance, and _pushes_.

Her dress whispers along her skin as she hurriedly makes her way across town, her coat and corset, no, _belt_ discarded somewhere in the emergency room. The encounter with the blonde woman now recovering on the second floor of the hospital has brought more of those images that never cease to swivel through her head, and the asylum from three stores below only mocks her impotence to sort through them. It would take her in again, she knows, and she would once more be lost. No. She has to find _him_, and be found in return.

* * *

It's just about closing time when the bell hums in the front of Mr. Gold's shop. Nicholas sighs. He isn't in the mood for customers. If he's to be honest with himself, he hasn't truly been in the mood for _anything_ for as long as he can remember. His fingers linger atop the yellowed pages of his register, the vellum strangely comforting against his skin. And he smiles - a cracked simulacrum of what could once have been a smirk.

He sits there, a dozen seconds, maybe more, just inhaling deep breaths of stale air. And then he wills himself to move, grab hold of his cane and put one shaky foot in front of the other, because isn't that what he always does? There's no point in postponing facing whoever is waiting for him on the other side. He wants it over and done with quickly. It's been a long time since Nicholas Gold last rejoiced in making a profitable sell or striking a cunning deal, and longer still since he last went home to notice the comfort and not the enormous emptiness of it all.

So he taps his way across the dimly lit back room, and peels away the curtains separating the front of his shop. He half-expects to find the mayor standing there, ready to vent her unhappiness. Or perhaps, he thinks, he might come face to face with a wary Mrs. Lucas on yet another brave and pointless quest to spare the diner's customers the fright of him collecting the rent in person. What he does not expect at all is to find himself facing _her_.

"Isa..." he breathes, surprised, and more surprised even to realize her shortened name doesn't feel quite right on his tongue, "...belle."

She stares at him from across the room, wide-eyed, face flushed, looking every bit like this is the first time they see each other, and he thinks it's quite silly, really, because this is the woman who met him for drinks and sex the night before. The woman who has slept in his arms and from whose bed he has crept out of at daybreak. It's in Isa's dainty little apartment above the library that lays forgotten, probably rumpled, one of Gold's favourite ties, and, equally tarnished, most of his unsavoury reputation. So he wants to laugh at how ridiculous she's being, except all clever, snarky retorts die on his tongue because, as confusing as the look in her eyes is, he finds he much prefers it to the exhausted hollowness that had always been there before. Isabelle French _shines_, seemingly more alive than ever, and it's almost enough for him to forget they're in a lifeless, dusty, old shop, and he's a spiritless, crippled old man. Almost.

A loud thump shakes him from his haze, and he realizes she must have dropped something, moving towards him with small, uncertain steps as if his shop's entire floor is made of broken glass, and that is something he can indeed recognize. There's a rhythmic tapping sound reaching his ears and it takes Gold a moment to process it's not coming from his cane. But it's not like he has time to ponder on it, because soon enough small fingers brush the lapels of his suit, trembling, hesitant gestures so uncharacteristic to Isa but startlingly endearing coming from this strange, new Isabelle. Cautious, as if expecting him to dissolve under her touch, she curls her body against his, so tender, pliant and _alive_ that he's caught off guard by his own body's urge to respond to her touch, to wind around her warmth like thread around a spool and stay like that forever.

The novelty of the sensation freezes him, but Isabelle moves for him, tipping her head back and rising on her toes to softly bring her lips to his. She shivers against his chest, and there's this faint metallic smell to her skin and a bitter taste to her mouth, but once her lips part his, ever so slowly, long-forgotten flavours, homemade and precious, leave him light-headed. He cannot tell why this feels so different from their other kisses, why her proximity sends small electric shocks sparkling underneath his skin, not when his brain refuses to cooperate with his senses and keeps repeating that the mechanics of it all is not unlike what they've shared before. But there is one thing Gold feels quite certain of. He wants to know where this - where _she_ - will lead them. He wants to follow. Wants _more_.

And so his arms flutter around Isabelle's form before deciding on encircling her tiny waist and settling at the small of her back. She pulls him tighter against her then, her small hands pressing against his shoulder blades from behind, and he can feel the pounding of her heart reverberating through him. It's a strange feeling, her heart beating inside _his _chest, setting his own shriveled muscle back in motion, and he finds himself instantly addicted to it. And it's then that he realizes he doesn't have to hold back, that he doesn't _want _ to hold anything back when it comes to this woman in his arms, not when having her attentions has been the highlight of his dull existence in this pitiful excuse of a town. He's never told her that, he thinks. In fact, he hasn't truly realized it until this very moment... that he might... actually...

But then, just as quickly as she's come to be in his arms, Isabelle is breaking away from him with a small whimper, her eyes in a frantic search of his face.

"What's...," he makes to ask, startled by her sudden change of heart and, to be fair, at this point, by everything.

"I don't _know_," she cuts him off, shaking her head hopelessly, brows knitted in frustration, and Gold gets this irrational, highly improper urge to smile and kiss the tip of her nose. Which he does. She stiffens at once, but when she gazes back up at him after what roughly feels like an eternity, her bewilderment is _so _ unreasonably beautiful, and she's responding with a small, brief smile of her own. Passingly, Gold thinks he might have known a woman with a smile as warm as hers once. A long, long time ago, before cabinets filled to the brim with strenuously restored items became his only focus.

"I think..." Isabelle frowns, and he can't remember ever seeing this woman struggle for words, "I need..." she doesn't seem to decide on that either, her hands twisting restlessly in the now much too wide space between their bodies, but then her face clears and deep blue eyes bore into his, and she knocks the breath out of him: "_you_."

For a man who has spent most of his years relishing in deceit and living off the fear of others, it is highly unsettling that he cannot find a single trace of falsity in Isabelle's features, and even more so that she comes to _him_ to banish her fears. It's strange enough to be needed, stranger still to be needed by _her_. It feels like a door is being forcefully held open in front of him, a path that will only lead to letting her down, to failure and heartache, and his mind is screaming to take cover, to flee or send her away. But then Isabelle's hand is so gentle as it cradles his face, brushing away a few loose strands of hair from his eyes and, with them, some of his darkest thoughts, and when his knuckles find themselves caressing her cheek in return, he allows himself to consider the possibility of a path towards companionship, affection. They're such foreign notions, and the chances of it all working out this way are pretty slim, but if Isabelle is willing to held open such a door to someone like him, then he should at least be willing to step through it.

Except he doesn't have the courage to make the first step, never had, and it's hers to take, once more. There's nothing tentative about Isabelle's motions now, as her hands grab at his jacket and yank it off his shoulders before attacking his waistcoat and rapidly divesting him of it. The spare tie that he keeps in his shop is her next victim, as are the top buttons of his shirt. The sudden urgency to her actions spurs Gold on, because her wanting him, _truly _ wanting him, has to be the most erotic sight he's ever seen.

Isabelle's dress is soft against his calloused fingers, loose enough that he has no trouble peeling it off her body in one swift motion before pulling her back to her rightful place against his chest and burying his head in the crook of her neck. The tingles on his skin are back as he nuzzles below her ear, stroking his lips across the length of her throat, occasionally grazing with tongue and teeth. One of his hands fists in her curls while the other sets on a quest to caress every bit of skin it can find. With every inch of flesh explored, Isabelle's breathing fastens, soft sounds escaping her lips, and Gold wants to smile, he wants to cry, joyful and petrified and in awe with this woman in his arms that has allowed him to have her so many times before, and yet makes him feel like this is the first time he's truly touching her.

He soon realizes that she's touching him, too, having gained access to places she shouldn't normally have access to, her little hand slipping below his now magically undone belt to cup him through his boxers. Gold bites back an undignified whimper, cursing himself for not anticipating this, for failing to remember, in the face of the new Isabelle, how much of a tease the old Isa could be. He grabs her wrist, stills her hand and looks her in the eye, feels her breath grazing his mouth, her disheveled hair tickling his cheek, sees her eyes crinkle and her smile brighten. She's _smiling_.

Gold's cane has long been accompanying whatever item Isabelle had dropped to the floor, and now they're joining them as he lowers her onto his discarded shirt and jacket, the small cot and his desk a few feet away suddenly much too far for his liking. She shifts underneath his weight until he can feel every inch of her pressed snugly against him, and yet he needs her _closer_. Isabelle is equally reluctant to let go of him to allow him to peel off her bra and knickers, and shake off his trousers. She's looking at him with hazy eyes, and once the tasks accomplished, her legs come to circle his hips and her arms to caress his back, urging him as near as he can get, then nearer still. He's not about to argue, not when her body arches so beautifully off the floor and into his as his fingers graze her torso, her hips, her navel, and _lower_. She sighs, her hands tugging on his hair, and soft crooning reaches his ears:

"Touch me again, it's working."

At that, Gold stares at her, perplexed. "What is?"

But Isabelle remains silent, biting her bottom lip and wetting it with the tip of her tongue, gazing down at their naked bodies, and Gold figures this is clearly not the time to dwell on semantics. Not when he's right there with her, willing, _dying _ to touch her and do _more_, needing her just as much as she him.

In one smooth thrust he's sheathed all the way inside her, and Isabelle cries out. A belated semi-coherent thought crosses his mind and he means to ask her if she's locked the front door, but it goes away just as quickly when she moves underneath him, canting her hips up and somehow managing to pull him in even deeper. A groan escapes his lips, and he's hopeless to do anything but think of her, rejoice in the feel of all of her, move against her, move _with_ her, and for some strange, inexplicable reason this is enough, like nothing has ever mattered or will ever mean more to him than this, than _them_.

Isabelle's quick breaths carry barely intelligible words. "Find your dreams... doesn't always last... forever." Gold has never learned what it is exactly that she needs when she gets like this, and so he does the only thing he knows would bring redemption to them both, and grabs her thighs, shifting her slightly so that he can hear her_ howl_. A few more powerful thrusts and she comes in his arms, harder than ever before, clutching at him fiercely, wrenching his cock and making him see stars, and once the haze of pleasure starts to dissipates from his mind, he thinks her nails have surely drawn blood on his back. He's panting heavily in the aftermath, clutching her small frame tightly to his chest, unsure of what has just happened but blissfully content that it did. Isabelle, too, cuddles into him, and lets out a deep sigh, the hot air dancing across his chest.

"Belle?" His voice is as slurred as his mind, his brogue so thick that he thinks he would have trouble understanding himself, and he manages to pull slightly off of her to watch her face. Her eyes are soft and a small, dreamy smile plays across her lips. Gold looses track of the time they spend staring at each other, feeling warm while laying on the cold floor of his shop, time's only measures Isabelle's breathing slowly returning to normal and her gentle caresses on his stubbled cheek. He finds he takes just as much pleasure from this simple act as he's taken from their lovemaking. In fact, he thinks they are still making love.

"Belle," she breaks the silence by trying out her new nickname on her tongue. "I like it," she smiles happily. "I'm alright, Nick... everything's alright," she whispers and moves up to kiss his neck in shy reassurance. He wouldn't normally believe her, because she never seems truly alright, except that right now he feels it, too. It all feels _right_. He doesn't know what surprises him more, the feeling or him actually being able to feel something.

"I should be going... and you should close your shop," she adds, squeezing his arm.

"Aye, that I should," he says reluctantly, and he awkwardly starts to disentangle himself from her, instantly regretting the loss of her warmth. They make quite the pair as they stand up, stark naked surrounded by antiques, and Gold is suddenly grateful for having been inspired enough to leave most of his shutters closed that morning. As Isabelle collects her discarded clothing and retires to the back room, he's left to fumble with his own clothes, cane and thoughts.

"Care to tell me what brought this on?" He asks, voice raised so it will carry to her.

"I... I had a car accident. Don't freak out, everything is still in perfect condition, as you could very well see," she quips. "Surprisingly, I didn't cause it. A woman in a yellow bug hit me. She got a concussion but she'll be fine, too. It's just that..." a deep sigh barely makes its way to his ears, "Never mind. It's fine, I'm fine now," she says, making her appearance from behind the heavy curtains after what to Gold have felt like terror-filled _ages_.

"Come on, I'll drive you home," he says, because he doesn't know _what_ to say, when faced with the sudden, bloodcurdling possibility of losing this woman who is not even his.

"No, Nick. I need to walk for a bit. Clear my head." He's left befuddled as she pecks him on the cheek, whispers "Thank you" and makes her way across the room, bending to pick something up. He can finally make out what it was that she'd dropped to the floor. One shoe, heel broken. Isabelle clutches it tightly in her hand as she taps her other, mismatched shoe and bare toes out of his shop, opening the door and giving him a small wave.

"Goodbye," he mumbles, and taps his own cane to the back room. Before the little bell rings a second time, Belle's clear voice echoes one last time throughout his shop: "I've made you some tea, it's on your desk!"

Gold stares dumbfounded at the steaming teapot and little chipped cup carefully arranged on a tray onto his workbench, as his chest fills up with the sweet, familiar perfume of cinnamon and roses, and with something else that he cannot identify, but that makes him ache like never before.

* * *

**Cover art by Adrian Domnisan / Art on Wall ( look him up on Facebook, he's awesome! ;) )**


End file.
